


"guardian angel kisses" is inaccurate

by liginamite



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sunburn, Travel, uhhh probably fluff idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun is the worst, traveling in the worst, and apparently people on Earth think that random specks on your cheeks mean that an angel kissed your face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"guardian angel kisses" is inaccurate

**Author's Note:**

> [throws arms up in the air]
> 
> this could have been so much more. have it. i'm trying to work through a baaad writer's block. angelship is helping me through it, i think. maybe.
> 
> anyway this one's called "i have no idea how they get from place to place, so, wacky airport hijinks."

It starts, somewhat vaguely, in Africa. 

It’s blazing hot, sun beaming down with little remorse, and the hats they’ve acquired to blend in with the locals aren’t doing much for protection. Soon enough, DeBlanc feels like he’s been roasted to a tanned crisp by the time they manage to secure another plane ride, wait out the time until take-off purchasing clothes in the airport and getting changed in separate stalls in the bathroom.

It’s only his face and arms, as he notes a little curiously when he shucks off the safari gear, tugs on the sort of business suit they’d noticed many of the men on the flight wearing. The lined difference starts mid-bicep, and he wiggles his fingers, compares the browner color to the rest of his arm. 

But it’s nothing compared to Fiore, who stays in his stall for a little longer than necessary and then spends most of the flight in a state of abject misery. 

“Well, looks like someone forgot their sunscreen.” One of the flight attendants, her hair in a bun and a scarf around her neck, hands them both some drinks and seems to be gently teasing. She’s friendly enough, and probably means well, but Fiore has always taken things at face value, and he tilts his head a little so that he’s looking at her primarily with his right eye, stays quiet for a long moment before speaking. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

She laughs, pats his shoulder in what DeBlanc can tell is a very unwelcome gesture. 

“Just use some aloe when we land, honey, and that should help you out.” She pats him again and moves on, leaving the pair of them to themselves. Fiore’s got a look on his face like he’s smelled something nasty, staring ahead again.

“You’re very… red,” DeBlanc offers, unhelpfully, after a couple of minutes of silence.

Fiore squirms in his seat, frowning. His cheeks are indeed a bright red, all the way down to his neck and into the folded collar of his shirt, to the bit of collarbone that had been exposed under the blistering sun. It’s painful just to look at, truth be told. Fiore’s just staring straight ahead, gaze flicking between each passenger, but his mouth has formed such an unhappy line that with his bright red face and wide eyes he looks downright scary. 

“I know,” he says through his teeth. 

DeBlanc takes a sip of his water, and leaves Fiore to his grumpy staring until they land.

Russia, now that’s different. It’s cold and everything is very grey, covered in a pristine dusting of snow wherever people haven’t walked yet. 

They don’t spend very much time there either, Genesis has already moved on to a new host, apparently somewhere in the United States ( _another bloody country away, across an entire ocean)_ but the cold seems to feel good on Fiore’s chapped skin. He’s not chipper, certainly, and with the ever-looming threat of one side or the other finding out about Genesis, they’re both certainly on edge. But they’re bundled in warm coats and the sun isn’t cooking their skin, and DeBlanc catches Fiore sighing softly during a particularly crisp breeze, so it’s a win-some lose-some situation. By the time they have to haul themselves back into a plane again, it’s been a day or so, and the red has managed to fade into something of a tan. 

It’s when they’re back in matching plane seats, _again,_ that DeBlanc first notices.

“You’ve got something on your face,” he says, confused, and when Fiore’s fingers come up to wipe whatever it is off, DeBlanc points. “Right there, on your cheek.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. Dust?” He watches as Fiore rubs a couple of times with his fingers, trying to wipe away the blemishes on his cheeks. They stay, regardless of his attempts, and when he looks over at DeBlanc, if anything he notices more of them. There’s a smattering of tiny little specks across the apples of his cheeks, on the bridge of his nose, just a few on his chin. “No, not dust. You haven’t gotten rid of them.”

“What are _they_?” Fiore demands, sounding nonplussed, and tugs down the sleeve of his button up to rub harder, until his skin is red from his attempts.. 

“I don’t know,” DeBlanc repeats, leans in a little closer. Their faces are near to each other enough that he feels Fiore’s breath on his lips, can see how the blue in the eyes of this body matches the blue behind them in the plane window. It reminds him of… other times, more private moments shared between the two of them, and he swallows before saying, “they’re… they’re on your skin.” 

Fiore’s eyes are still wide but his brow furrows, and he sits back again and huffs out a breath. 

“On my skin,” he repeats, quietly, and then huffs out something like an angry laugh.

DeBlanc sort of misses the proximity. They forget about it, for now. 

But Fiore must have some sort of sign above his head, asking human women to comment on his appearance, because while they’re checking out the first location in America (first, because Genesis must not want to be found, it jumps from host to host before they can get _close_ ), one of them behind the counter of a clothing store says, “you’re not from around here, are you?” 

Fiore, oddly enough, squints at her.

“...no.” 

“We’re visiting from out of town,” DeBlanc supplies from behind him, puts down a few shirts on the counter pointedly, but she laughs.

“I can tell,” is what she says, and starts ringing them out. “You guys might want to get some sunblock. Looks like you’ve already got some bad sunburn. Los Angeles sun is wicked cruel.” 

“Sunburn,” Fiore repeats, and there’s a tension in his tone that means he wants the conversation to be over, either right now or after she explains herself. Knowing it’s likely to be the former, DeBlanc gives her his most winning, dangerous little smile and nods his head.

“Sunblock. Of course. We’ll keep that in mind.” 

The clothes don’t mean much anyway in the long run, since it only takes them a couple of minutes to know that Genesis is long gone. They’re in an airport again before they know it, and while Fiore is having a staredown with a large array of junk food in the convenience store near their gate, DeBlanc picks up a bottle of sunblock and stares at it thoughtfully. 

He takes it with him, along with the large bag of potato chips Fiore’s decided he wants, and they sit together at the gate yet again, trying to chase after what seems like an impossible goal. 

They end up next to a small old lady, who mostly keeps to herself and reads a little book, but she does take note of the sign over Fiore’s head and says in her brittle voice, “you have some lovely freckles.”

DeBlanc privately wishes this would stop happening, but Fiore’s attention is grabbed, and he looks at her quietly for a moment before he repeats her words. 

“Freckles?”

She nods, doesn’t-quite-touch with a crinkled finger. 

“Over here, on your cheeks. You must have a very sweet guardian angel.” 

DeBlanc’s stomach does a spectacularly impressive double backflip, though he keeps his composure easily and only manages to cough a little.

But Fiore blinks down at her curiously, and at his silence she elaborates. 

“Oh, come now, don’t you know?” She smiles kindly at him, pats his hand with hers. “Freckles are kisses from your guardian angel. Or that’s what they say, at any rate.” 

At that, DeBlanc gets a side-eye from Fiore, wide-eyed and incredibly amused despite the confusion there too. DeBlanc leans forward just a little, just enough so that his shoulder touches Fiore’s and says with as much of a casual air as he can muster, “I ought to have a few myself, then.” 

If the old lady is confused, she doesn’t show it, but there’s a quiet, private smile on Fiore’s face that makes the quip worth it.

Texas is just as hot as Africa, and Los Angeles, but they’ve _found it._ Genesis, wriggling around happily in a preacher’s body, not a care in the world. DeBlanc feels _relief_ and _anger_ in equal measure, and from next to him, Fiore is still with tension and a relief that’s palpable.

Of course it all goes tits up, as things tend to.

“It should’ve worked.” DeBlanc sits on the edge of their motel bed, watching Fiore pace back and forth on the carpet. “The song should’ve worked.”

“We would’ve gotten it back.” Fiore has a tension in his very bones that is nearly making him vibrate as he walks back and forth. “If we hadn’t been interrupted, we could’ve gotten it back.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” DeBlanc watches every step. “He should’ve heard the song and come out.” 

If Fiore notices the slip of the tongue, he doesn’t mention it. Instead he lets out a huff that shakes his shoulders and then sits down next to DeBlanc on the bed, folds his hands together between his knees. They sit quietly, but DeBlanc can still feel that tension laced in Fiore’s spine. 

And with good reason. They spent so much time _searching_ and traveling that the sudden stagnation has them both on edge, has them both left with nothing to do while they wait. The sheriff was amiable enough, didn’t seem to ask too many questions, but they’re still left with little to do, and impatience doesn’t sit well with either of them. DeBlanc knows they both want it over and done with. 

He stands up, nearly starts continuing the trench Fiore had been trying to create in the carpet, and instead starts digging through the second trunk, the one with their belongings.

The sunblock sits there, innocent as can be between two neatly folded shirts. He picks it up, stares at it again. It’s cold and heavy in his hands, and as a thought he walks back over to Fiore, rubs his thumb over one warm cheek. There’s a redness, a dryness there from the sun, but… DeBlanc looks, tilts his head to squint at Fiore’s skin again. 

“The spots are different,” he says after a moment. They’re in a different pattern across his face, not as many on his nose, none on his chin. 

Fiore stares back at him.

“The... freckles?” 

DeBlanc nods, steps back again even though the contact had been welcome, nice. As much time as they spent together, it hasn’t been _together_ the way they used to be, and he sits back down on the bed so their thighs are touching. He’s still got the sunblock in his free hand, and Fiore takes it from him to read the label. 

“Sunburn,” he says thoughtfully after a moment. 

DeBlanc raises his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders. 

They sit like that for a long, long time, gently touching at the knee. Neither says anything.

But then, very carefully, Fiore leans over and presses his lips lightly to DeBlanc’s cheek.

It’s a personal gesture, one that neither of them are very much used to on Earth, one that neither of them have felt very comfortable expressing in a long time. But the intention is clear, and it brings a smile to DeBlanc’s face before he can stop himself. The sun is beginning to set, and the preacher will be at the church again.

“We should get ready,” he says, and Fiore nods. They have a long night ahead of them. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm over at [tumblr](http://hullums.tumblr.com)!


End file.
